


Every Rose Has its Thorn

by kiranerys42



Series: Flowers [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Flowers, Fluff, Language of Flowers, M/M, Magical Realism, Podfic Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 05:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20961314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiranerys42/pseuds/kiranerys42
Summary: “David, where did this rose come from?” Patrick asked.





	Every Rose Has its Thorn

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know how this fic happened. It is un-beta'd.
> 
> Written in response to a prompt on the [Schitt's Creek Kink Meme](http://schitts-creek.dreamwidth.org/703.html).
> 
> The title is from "Every Rose Has its Thorn" by Poison; I can't believe no one has used this title yet, and I apologize if anyone else has, in fact, used this title before me.
> 
> I know literally nothing about flower symbolism; everything represented in this fic is the result of some very frantic Googling. Which is, honestly, probably what Patrick would've done.

“David, where did this rose come from?” Patrick asked.

“Oh, um—that just happens sometimes,” David said, sheepishly picking up the single rose that had appeared on the pillow beside his head and tossing it across the room.

“What do you mean, that _happens sometimes_?” Patrick craned his head back to try to see where the rose had fallen.

“They just, you know, appear. When I… um.”

“When you have sex.”

“Sort of? When I, uh, get off.” David reached up to pull Patrick down for a kiss, but Patrick was having none of it.

“Wait, wait.” Patrick pulled back, shaking his head. “You need to give me some more information here.”

“The roses just _appear_, alright?” David snapped. “Not—not usually when I’m alone. But sometimes. And usually with someone else. They’re not always the same color. That’s it, okay?”

“What do the colors mean? That one was pink, right?”

“Coral,” David said, then immediately looked like he regretted it. “But I don’t know. They don’t mean anything. Just… ignore it.”

“Right,” Patrick replied slowly. “I’ll just… ignore it.”

The next day, Patrick was organizing the stockroom at Rose Apothecary when he overheard Stevie ask David a _very_ interesting question.

“Why did I find a pink rose in my apartment this morning?”

“It’s not pink, it’s coral,” David snapped.

Patrick took out his phone and Googled “coral rose meaning.”

“Coral roses symbolize desire,” Patrick told David later that night.

“Hmm?”

“I Googled it. Different flowers mean different things. And coral roses indicate desire.”

“Whatever you say,” David grumbled, and Patrick laughed.

The coral roses continued, although sometimes they looked more orange to Patrick. He tried not to say anything about it, though, because he knew it made David uncomfortable.

“What color were David’s roses with you?” Patrick asked Stevie one day.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She obviously knew exactly what he was talking about, so Patrick just raised his eyebrows and waited.

There was a long pause.

“Yellow,” Stevie finally told him.

Patrick had gotten yellow roses a few times, too. According to Google, they represented friendship.

He didn’t ask Stevie if she’d looked up the meaning, too.

* * *

After the open mic, there were a _lot_ of flowers.

“Um, David? Has there ever been—this many?”

“No,” David said softly, his eyes widening. “I’ve gotten—a few, before. But never like this.”

They both stared at the pile of flowers on the bed. They were all different colors—coral, pink, yellow, even a few that were almost red; those were definitely new.

Patrick picked up one of the flowers. It was white, and smaller than the others, with fewer petals.

“Is this even a rose?” he asked.

“I have no idea what that is,” David said. “I’ve never gotten flowers other than roses before.”

Patrick had to ask Twyla to identify the flower the next day. He’d bookmarked the flower meanings website by then, so it was easy enough to learn that freesia symbolized trust.

* * *

The first time they had sex after the barbecue and David’s “olive branch,” there were daffodils—those meant forgiveness.

A few months later, the freesia came back, too.

Patrick still didn’t say anything about the flowers, but he was secretly proud every time there were red roses, or at least—roses with some red in them. None of them were ever completely red. Or at least, none of them were completely red until the day that Patrick told David that he loved him, and David said it back.

Then there were red roses all the time.

After Patrick moved into his new apartment, there was an _orchid_. Well, not right away; first there had been some yellow hyacinth, after the housewarming party and the thing with Ken; Patrick didn’t quite understand that, because _he’d_ been the one who was jealous after Ted had kissed David, and _David_ had been the one to insist he go on that date with Ken, so he really had no right to be jealous. But he knew better than to say anything about it.

And then, one day—the orchid appeared.

“Don’t orchids live for a long time? I think I should keep this one.”

“Keep it, like… press it in a book? That’s very Victorian of you.”

“David, you’re the one whose orgasms are accompanied by symbolic flowers, that’s the most Victorian thing I’ve ever heard of.”

“I’m pretty sure the Victorians didn’t approve of orgasms,” David said.

Patrick went all the way to Elmdale to get a little terra cotta pot for his orchid. He probably could’ve found one in Schitt’s Creek, but he needed one that matched the orchid, which was bright orange and red.

He put the orchid on the fireplace mantel, right next to the window. When anyone asked about it, Patrick made sure to tell them that it was a gift from David.

* * *

The night that Patrick proposed, there were so many flowers, they had to clear them out of the bed before going to sleep.

“I’m _so_ sorry—” David began.

“Don’t apologize,” Patrick said, trying not to laugh. “This is, um, very reassuring, actually.”

“Don’t tell me you need _more_ reassurance, after what we just did,” David said. “I’m tired, and we need to _sleep_.”

Patrick tried _very hard_ not to laugh.

Working together, it didn’t take them too long to clear the red and white roses off the bed (white roses were _definitely_ new; Patrick was dying to look them up, but he knew he’d have to wait until the morning). Usually, David’s roses didn’t have thorns, but some of these did; and as Patrick reached for one, he pricked his finger.

“Ow!” he said, grabbing his hurt finger in his other hand.

“Oh, no,” David said. “I can only help you with one injury a day. Please tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, it’s just—why are there thorns!?”

“Well, you know what they say.” David smirked. “Every rose has its thorn.”

“Wow, thank you for choosing my song for the next open mic,” Patrick replied.

“Oh god, no, don’t—”

“Just like every night has its dawn,” Patrick sang.

“_Please_ don’t do this,” David begged.

“Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song...”

“Sad cowboys are only allowed in Brokeback Mountain; this is _not okay_ , Patrick.”

Patrick laughed. Then he imagined an entire lifetime of new flowers, of new experiences, all with David by his side—and he laughed some more.

“What’s so funny?” David asked.

“I love you, David Rose.” Patrick leaned in to press a kiss to David’s forehead. “And I love your flowers, too.”

“Fuck off,” David muttered, but Patrick could tell he was smiling.


End file.
